"GET GOING GIRL". A shrill voice pierced her ears accompanied by an equally grating shove from behind. The aged maasi’s face contorted into a scowl, the buckets in her hand impatiently waiting to be filled. Saffiya bowed her head lightly with a quick apology and timidly shuffled forward. The line in front of her was long and reminded her of a snake skin she found next to her school yard once. Although instead it was a crowd of women; young and old wearing dusty shawls loosely around their figure, one could think their expressions as hollow as the snake skin. This state of misery had been like a permanent dark cloud since the floods started.
Saffiya’s face soured at the mere thought of the disastrous floods, her knuckles paling as they clenched the steel handle of the buckets. The flood came unexpectedly, she was shaken awake in the dead of the night by her father, his eyes wrought with terror as he lifted her up in his arms and ran outside with the rest in tow. She could hear the thunderous sounds of the waves as they roared and gushed against the neighbouring buildings reminding her of the story of Prophet Nuh AS. Her Abu had her mother and siblings taken to a safer, higher nook in the mountain with her older brother, Zaid, stationed as a protector. Abu had then raced down to try to salvage any valuables or lives as was the honourable way. With dawn came hope of ease although one bitter reality persisted and made itself known; Abu didn’t survive.
Her family had grieved immensely: her mother’s soft, pitiful sobs filled the air and her brother’s face was shadowed with responsibility. Still, life moved on and the floods raged on. Saffiya cried, she pleaded with God to send mercy and lamented why those politicians with their big shows and promises, failed? Where was the help? Saffiya mused in silence as she trudged across the gravelly path with the now filled buckets of water. It was a cloudy day with a playful breeze; perfect for flying a kite, once, now it only made her shiver. Her eyes trailed over to the young boys skidding to school with their worn back-packs, they could still go apparently. In hard times, lofty ideals like women’s education carried no weight after all. She sighed, wishing for the feel of her pen in her hands again rather than the weighty buckets.
She reached home and with routined effort gave a polite greeting to her great aunt who was sifting through beads and scoffing about the ‘a woman would either be in home or in the grave... nowadays though....” She divided the water for cooking and drinking then. Later, at night when she lay down on the rug next to her younger siblings, she couldn’t help, but hoped for a better future after all, Allah had made intelligent and good people for a reason right, surely there would be a way out.